


You Must Be A Christmas Tree (You Light Up The Room)

by chamel



Series: The Best Thing About NYC Is You And Me [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art School, Art Student!Napoleon, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Party, Dancing, Developing Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fashion Designer!Illya, First Meetings, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Gift Giving, Ice Skating, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Mutual Pining, Napoleon pov, New Year's Eve, New York City, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romantic Comedy, Roommates, Slow Burn, Snow, going on dates and pretending they're not dates, like ridiculous amounts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28052034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamel/pseuds/chamel
Summary: “So?” Napoleon says through a mouthful of cornbread. “You don’t have one, unless you’re secretly dating someone without me knowing?”Illya winces and stares fixedly into his bowl. “They think I do.”There’s a beat, and Napoleon swallows. “Ah. Anyone in particular, or…?”Even as he asks, he suddenly knows that he does not want to know the answer to that question. Not really. There is no circumstance in which it is a good idea for him to find out the kind of person that his roommate would serve up as some idealized partner when lying to his coworkers. Probably said person is entirely made up, probably some equally tall and beautiful Russian, maybe even still back in Russia, which would make the most sense, honestly, and—“It’s you, Cowboy.”(Surely nothing could go wrong with attending holiday parties posing as the boyfriend of your Russian roommate who you're secretly in love with, right?Right??)
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller
Series: The Best Thing About NYC Is You And Me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2131179
Comments: 56
Kudos: 188
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nixie_DeAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nixie_DeAngel/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this one Nixie! The fic got a little away from me (obviously), but that's no surprise. I got immediately inspired by your roommates + fake dating prompt; throw in a fic author who is missing Christmas time in New York City this year something fierce, and this is the result. This is full of ridiculous romantic comedy tropes and fluff, and I love it terribly.
> 
> Title from the song "Barcarola (You Must Be A Christmas Tree)" by Sufjan Stevens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Russian text can be found in the footnote at the end.

Getting a roommate off Craigslist was probably not his brightest idea. It’s just that all of the usual, better options either hadn’t panned out or weren’t _really_ options, and Napoleon was beyond desperate. He’d posted a few flyers around campus and ads on social media, but he’d been quite picky when meeting with potential candidates and now he is paying the price. Most of his fellow art students are both younger than him and completely lack any kind of regular income, which does little to engender any kind of reassurance that they would be able to continue to pay the rent after the first month or so. His own job as an assistant to an art restorer doesn’t pay super well, but at least it’s a real job.

Originally he had assumed his one friend who did have a steady job would move in, because why wouldn’t she want to? He is a goddamn delight to live with. But for some reason, Gaby refuses to relinquish the tiniest studio in all of creation (or at least in all of Brooklyn), claiming she needs her own space, never mind that the open room in Napoleon’s apartment is almost bigger than her entire place. Finally, he’d gotten to the point where if he didn’t get someone soon he wasn’t going to be able to make the next month’s rent, and so: Craigslist.

Which is how he ended up standing at the door of his apartment, trying not to gape as he stares at the tallest, most intimidating, and most beautiful Russian man he’s ever laid eyes on.

When he’d gotten the email from a guy his age apparently moving to New York from Moscow he’d almost deleted it immediately, assuming it was some kind of scam, but something stopped him. He hadn’t had anyone contact him in a few days and was rapidly running out of time, and the guy who sent the email also seemed kind of desperate. Something about a last minute job offer at a ritzy fashion design house if he could guarantee he could be there right away to take over for someone who had left them in the lurch only a month before NY Fashion Week. Honestly the whole explanation should have made it seem _more_ like a scam, but the fact was that he’d overheard some of the fashion design students gossiping about the surprise departure last week, so there was at least some kernel of truth there.

It’s a huge risk, telling some guy halfway around the world that he could move in sight unseen, after nothing more than a few emails back and forth, but Napoleon usually goes with his gut on big decisions, and it hasn’t failed him yet. There is, however, a first time for everything, which is what is currently running through his head as his new roommate glowers down at him with piercing blue eyes.

Napoleon plasters his most disarming smile on his face and juts his hand out. “You must be Illya.”

“Yes,” the giant says. He does not take Napoleon’s hand.

“Napoleon Solo,” he says as he withdraws the hand, rubbing his palm on his hip and pretending it’s not awkward. “You can just call me Solo, though. Only my mother calls me Napoleon. I don’t know if you just go by Illya, or something else, just let me know—”

“Illya is fine. Are you going to let me in?”

“Right,” Napoleon says, stepping to the side and opening the door wider. “Do you have other stuff to bring up…?”

The landing outside the apartment is empty save for a single large duffle bag, but Illya just shakes his head as he grabs it and brings it inside. The only other thing he has on him is a slim computer case, slung over one shoulder. “This is it.”

“Huh. I mean, I just figured a fashion designer would have more clothes to bring with him.”

“I design haut couture. I don’t wear it,” Illya says, and for the first time his lips twitch into the barest hint of a wry smile.

Napoleon laughs, not entirely easily, at the joke. It was a joke, right? Had to be. Maybe not, though, because Illya is wearing a black turtleneck—despite the fact that it is the end of July and approximately a million percent humidity outside—and a pair of well-fitting but nondescript grey slacks. The fashion students at Pratt typically either wear all black or the most outrageous outfits he’s ever seen, but none of them look quite like the man currently standing in front of him.

“Right,” Napoleon says again, at a somewhat unusual loss for words. They stand there for a minute, staring at each other, and goddammit it seems like Illya is waiting for _him_ to break the silence. “Well, like I said in the email, there’s a mattress in the room but no frame, but I have a car, we could go to Ikea if you’d like at some point?”

“It’s fine. Which room?”

Napoleon doesn’t know if that means Illya does or doesn’t want to go, but whatever. He’ll figure it out later. “Down the hall, first door on your right. Second door is the bathroom, end of the hall is me. Kitchen on the left. Can I get you anything? Water? Soda? Scotch? Er, vodka?”

Illya’s lips twitch again into not-quite-a-smile, which is unfairly alluring and makes something in Napoleon desperate to pull a real one out of him. He’s always drawn to puzzles, wants understand _exactly_ how they work, so if Illya thinks being enigmatic is going to make Napoleon leave him alone, he is sorely mistaken.

“Nothing, thanks,” Illya tells him, then turns and walks off down the hall.

Napoleon absolutely does not take the opportunity to check out the rather fine ass filling out those slacks, or the back muscles rippling under his shirt as he carries the duffle. Illya disappears into the room and it takes Napoleon a moment to realize he’s still standing at the entrance of the apartment, holding the door open. He hastily closes it and pushes a hand into his hair, wondering what he just got himself into. His new roommate is intriguing, devastatingly good-looking, and seems entirely immune to his charms.

Fuck. This could be a problem.

* * *

There is definitely something wrong with him.

Normal, well-adjusted people don’t fall hopelessly in love in less than two weeks. Love at first sight—hell, love at a few days—that’s movie shit, not anything that ever happens in real life. And normal, well-adjusted people _certainly_ don’t fall in love with their grumpy, taciturn roommate who seems to barely tolerate them.

It wouldn’t be the first time, though. When he does fall in love—which is honestly not _that_ often, truly—Napoleon tends to fall hard and fast, usually to miserable results. Under typical circumstances, when he feels it happening he tries to keep his distance, tries to back up and lose himself in a few one-night stands to take his mind off of it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

These are far from typical circumstances. There’s no way to keep his distance from the very large man currently sharing an apartment with him, even if Illya does seem to work ridiculously long hours and spends most of the time that he is in the apartment asleep. Once, when he actually came home early enough that Napoleon was still cooking dinner, Napoleon managed to ply him with food and get out of him that it’s just the crunch before Fashion Week. This of course made abundant sense, and contradicted the idea that he was just trying to avoid Napoleon, which really wasn’t helpful at all.

The thing is, even if he doesn’t know Illya that well, Napoleon knows him well enough. Knows that he’s considerate and kind despite the gruff exterior, that he’s driven and talented, and that he has a wickedly dry sense of humor that never fails to make Napoleon laugh, even when he tries not to show it.

“There is definitely something wrong with you,” Gaby says, eyeing him shrewdly as she crunches through an apple.

There’d been a break in the mid-August heat, and they’re enjoying the pleasant day by eating lunch outside on Pratt’s verdant Brooklyn campus. Students wander to and fro between the buildings, some hauling large portfolios tucked under their arms. A few of his classmates are also sitting out on the green, sketching buildings or sparrows or their fellow students. Napoleon is pretty sure they’re being sketched at this moment, but he’s gotten good at ignoring it. Instead he looks up from his position, stretched out and reclining on one elbow in the grass, to where his best friend sits cross-legged next to him. Judging him.

“How dare you?” Napoleon scoffs with outrage that is only half put-on. “I am completely well-adjusted, thank you very much.”

Gaby snorts at him. “Oh yeah? That’s why you fell head over heels for your roommate who barely talks to you? In less than two weeks?”

“He talks. On occasion.”

“You don’t know anything about this guy, Solo,” she argues, rolling her eyes at him. “You found him on _Craigslist_ for god’s sake. He’s probably a psychopath or a serial killer or something.”

“He’s not a psychopath, he’s a fashion designer,” Napoleon retorts indignantly.

Gaby smirks at him before taking another bite of her apple. “Same difference.”

“Ooh, I’m gonna tell Marc you said that.”

“Marc agrees with me,” she shoots back archly. “And you’re trying to change the subject.”

Napoleon is, in fact, trying his hardest to resist making a face at her. “Am not.”

“My point is, you can’t be in love with him yet,” she says matter-of-factly. Really, she should know better by now, but Gaby is nothing if not practical, and sometimes she seems to forget that Napoleon is pretty much the opposite of practical.

“Says you.”

“So why haven’t you asked him out, then?”

“Even I’m not stupid enough to hit on my roommate two weeks into a year-long lease,” he sighs, pushing himself up into a more upright position. He’s already eaten the sandwich he brought and is currently eyeing Gaby’s chips, but unfortunately she spots him and pulls them out of his reach. “Besides, I don’t even know that he’s interested in men.”  
  
“Seriously?” she asks, arching her eyebrows at him. “He’s in fashion. I think your gaydar needs tuning.”

Napoleon huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll have you know my gaydar works perfectly, but he’s very reserved. It’s very hard to say.”  
  
“Whatever. Obviously I need to meet him,” she says casually.

“Now hold on a minute—”

Gaby cuts him off. “What, you’re planning on hiding him for the next year? I’ll be there for Wednesday dinner this week. Don’t make anything with truffles in it.”

“As if I could afford truffles,” Napoleon mutters. He knows better than to argue with her about coming, because she’ll show up no matter what anyway. It’s not that he doesn’t want her to meet his roommate, but really, he’d been hoping to put it off until he got to know the man a little better himself. Of course, at the rate they’re going that _could_ be next year, but still.

She eyes him, like she doesn’t quite believe him, and smirks again. “Never stopped you before.”

* * *

When Napoleon gets home that evening he’s surprised to find Illya already there. What’s more, he’s not in his room, but in the kitchen, apparently talking on the phone. Napoleon drops his stuff in the entranceway and shuts the door loudly enough to let his roommate know that he’s no longer alone, though either this doesn’t register or Illya doesn’t care.

“Hmm,” Illya grunts into the phone, barely looking up at Napoleon when he walks into the kitchen. He’s sitting at the table, a box of takeout in front of him with a pair of chopsticks sticking out of the top. “Все нормально. Ковбой задает много вопросов. Да, я знаю, что они всегда такие. Он с факультета искусств. Нет, не знаю, не спрашивал. Извини, мне надо бежать, я перезвоню попозже. Люблю, целую.”1

Out of the corner of his eye from where he’s currently peering into the fridge, Napoleon can see Illya hang up and drop his phone on the table, diving back into his meal with enthusiasm. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, truly, and he didn’t catch all of it, but…

“Did you just call me a cowboy?” he asks, straightening up and closing the fridge again.  
  
Illya looks up at him in surprise, chopsticks frozen halfway to his mouth. “You speak Russian?”

“A bit,” Napoleon shrugs. “A few years ago I had a thing with a girl from Brighton Beach.”

“You learned Russian for a ‘ _thing_ ’?” Illya scoffs in disbelief.

Napoleon waves his hand dismissively, though of course the reason he knew any at all was because she’d been one of the ones he’d fallen hard for. Not that he was going to explain this. “It was a mildly serious thing. Stop avoiding the question.”

“Yes, I called you a cowboy,” Illya confirms bluntly. “Because you are.”

“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to elaborate on that one.”

Illya shakes his head, gesturing in the air with the chopsticks. “It’s just how all you Americans are. You go swaggering into any situation guns blazing, without any sense of subtlety.”

Well. Napoleon feels like he should be highly insulted by this, although he has to admit the description isn’t inaccurate for some of his countrymen. Not _him_ , though. “I don’t see it.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“I grew up in Queens, my friend,” Napoleon points out. “I’m in school for a fine arts degree for Christ’s sake. I’m as much a cowboy as you are the Red Peril.”

Illya considers this for a moment, staring at him in an evaluating way that is a little uncomfortable. “Hmph. You are still a cowboy,” he mutters, diving into his food again. After a second, when Napoleon is still staring at him in disbelief, he gestures to the takeout bag with his chopsticks. “Eggroll?”

Napoleon almost refuses out of spite, because he is still offended, dammit, but the eggrolls do smell amazing. With a huff, he stalks over to the bag and grabs one, frowning at Illya the whole time. His roommate doesn’t look up at these dramatics, but his lips do twitch in amusement, and Napoleon counts that as a small victory.

“Will you be around for dinner Wednesday night?” he asks eventually between bites of the eggroll.

This gets Illya to glance at him, eyebrows raised in confusion. “Maybe. Why?”

“My friend Gaby wants to meet you. She’s coming over for dinner.”

Illya hums uncertainly at that, and for a minute Napoleon thinks he’s going to refuse, but then he shrugs. “Sure. I’ll tell work.”

“I mean, you don’t have to if you’d rather not,” Napoleon says quickly. “I can say you’re too busy.”

He actually smirks at that, the bastard. “You don’t want me to meet your cowboy friends?”

“Oh ho,” Napoleon chuckles, “don’t let her catch you calling her that. She’s German, and _will_ tackle you to the ground.”

“And yet she puts up with you,” Illya deadpans.

“Very funny,” Napoleon says, making a face, and throws a packet of duck sauce at him.

* * *

For some unknown, completely insane reason, Napoleon decides to make a lasagne on Wednesday. The dinner is hardly a special occasion, but he’s all keyed up anyway. Gaby is pretty much the only thing he has that passes for family these days, so as much as he won’t admit it, her approval means a lot to him. Even beyond whatever feelings he may or may not have for Illya, they’re roommates for the next year, and it would make things so much more annoying if he and Gaby don’t get along.

He’s in the middle of the bechamel, because of _course_ he is, when he hears Gaby buzz the apartment. He can also hear Illya’s heavy footsteps as he goes to let her in, and no no no they are _not_ supposed to meet without him being there, but he simply cannot abandon the stovetop. Swearing under his breath, Napoleon stirs his sauce vigorously and prays for no disasters.

When he does finally make it out to the living room a few minutes later he finds them already chatting, and Illya is… smiling. Honest-to-goodness smiling at the petite German, who’s grinning back up at him. The sight makes an ugly knife of jealousy twist deep within him before he can shove it away. He wanted them to get along, right? Well, it looks like they’re getting along.

“I see you two have already met,” Napoleon says, wiping his hands on his apron.

Gaby turns to look at him, and there’s a knowing, mischevious twinkle in her eye that makes Napoleon nervous. “Only just,” she says lightly, and it seems he gets a reprieve from whatever trouble she’s been concocting, for the moment at least. “Sorry I’m late, the asshole with the Jag was back this afternoon. I don’t know why he insists I’m the one to look at his car every time it has the tiniest rattle.”  
  
“It’s because you’re the best, my dear,” Napoleon tells her. He leans in kiss her cheek, and she smiles smugly, preening under his praise.

“Flattery won’t get you work done for free, you know.”

“Gaby works as a mechanic at a garage on Koschiuszko Street,” Napoleon explains at Illya’s curious expression. “So if you find grease smudges around the place, you’ll know where they came from.”

Illya cocks an eyebrow at this. “You’re a mechanic _and_ an art student?” he asks.

“Industrial design,” Gaby corrects. “Half of the smudges in this apartment are from the machine shop on campus.”

It seems that Napoleon is, in fact, not needed here at the moment. He’s not really sure how he feels about that, but at least he can get back to the food without too much worry. “Entertain yourselves for a while, will you?” he says as he starts walking back toward the kitchen. “I have to go put the lasagne in the oven.”

“I promise I won’t give away all your secrets,” Gaby calls after him in a tone of voice that suggests just the opposite.

By any metric, the evening is a smashing success. Illya is in one of his more forthcoming moods, or maybe it’s just that Gaby seems to have no trouble getting him to open up about his past. Most of it is stuff that Napoleon has already managed to wheedle out of him over the last two weeks, which he’s privately pleased about, even though he knows it doesn’t really mean anything. The rush of pleasure he gets when Illya compliments his cooking—in his own begrudging way, of course—feels like it could sustain him for a week at least.

When the last of the wine is drunk, Illya pushes himself out of his chair and makes to start clearing dishes, but Napoleon waves him off. “Don’t worry about those, Peril. We’ll take care of them.”  
  
“You sure, Cowboy? You did all the cooking,” Illya replies, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“What I meant to say is Gaby will take care of them, won’t you?” Napoleon grins at her, which nets him a tongue stuck out in return. “We have an arrangement.”

“I can help,” Illya offers, but to Napoleon’s surprise Gaby shakes her head.

“No no, Solo is right. For once,” she says, looking like the admission pains her. “It is after all your first Wednesday dinner. You get a pass this time.”

Illya looks back and forth between them a small furrow of confusion appearing between his brows. “This time?”

“Solo told you about our Wednesday night dinners, right?” she asks, then swats Napoleon’s arm when Illya shakes his head.

“Hey, you’re the one who’s been too busy lately,” Napoleon retorts. He looks back up at Illya, who’s still hovering a bit awkwardly over the table. “We have a standing appointment for Wednesday night dinners, as long as life doesn’t get in the way.”

“No pressure, but you’re more than welcome to join us, if you’d like,” Gaby tells Illya.

Illya stares at them both for a moment, like he doesn’t quite understand, and Napoleon becomes more sure he’s going to beg off with each passing moment. Which is fine, almost none of his previous roommates ever joined them, and he gets the impression that Illya would prefer to keep his distance.

(Rather, it seems like Illya would prefer to keep his distance from _Napoleon_ specifically, if not Gaby; that bitter thoughts slips into Napoleon’s mind unbidden, and he chases it away before it can sour his good mood.)

But then Illya gives a small nod, the corners of his mouth tipping upward in his trademark not-quite-a-smile. “Sure. Sounds… nice.”

“Wonderful!” Gaby enthuses, her eyes sparkling as she shoots a grin at Napoleon. “Now I suppose I should get these dishes, hm?”

“In that case, I do have some work I should probably get to…” Illya says, a little hesitantly. Napoleon doesn’t know if it’s true or if he’s just looking for an exit, but either way he gives a nod and doesn’t miss the small look of relief on Illya’s face. “Thanks for dinner, Cowboy,” he adds.

“Don’t mention it, Peril. My pleasure.”

When his roommate has left, Napoleon grabs the leftover lasagna and brings it over to the counter to put it away as Gaby gathers their plates and silverware, humming thoughtfully to herself.

“Pet names already? You really are gone for him, aren’t you?” Gaby grins as she puts the dishes into the sink. “Tsk tsk, you do like to make life hard for yourself.”

Napoleon winces at how loud her voice sounds in the quiet kitchen. From his room Illya shouldn’t be able to hear the words, but still. “They’re just nicknames, not pet names. And can you keep your voice down?” he hisses. Then, after a beat: “Is it really that obvious?”  
  
Gaby purses her lips disapprovingly at him, but when she speaks again her voice is low. “If you’re asking if I think he knows, then no. But really, would it be so bad if he did?”

“I think he’s more interested in you, to be perfectly honest with you,” Napoleon mutters, trying not entirely successfully to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Nah,” she says, waving a hand. “Interested in protecting me like the little sister he never had, maybe.”

Napoleon huffs out a laugh at that. “ _Protect_ you? I’d like to see him try.”

“I think it’s sweet,” she says, and Napoleon turns to make sure that she hasn’t been replaced by a pod person. She sticks her tongue at him when she sees his incredulous expression. “What? I’m not allowed to think your grumpy Russian roommate is sweet?”

“Whatever you say, my dear.”

“Really, Solo, I can, like, drop some hints if you want,” she offers. “Normally I hate that shit but for you, I’d do it.”

Napoleon smiles at her fondly, shaking his head. “As much as I appreciate the offer, please no. I’ll be happy if we can manage to be friends, honestly. He doesn’t have the highest opinion of Americans.”

“Hmm,” she hums as she narrows her eyes at him, then she pokes him hard in the chest. “Well, maybe this American will change his mind.”

Somehow it doesn't seem super likely, but, well, stranger things have happened.

* * *

**Three Months Later**

Napoleon hears the front door to the apartment close and the telltale rhythm of Illya stomping the lingering snow off his boots in the entryway. It’s already shaping up to be a snowy December, only a week in, but it’s still early enough in the season that the weather still has a magical quality. The holidays help with that, of course. Napoleon hums along absently to the song playing over the bluetooth speakers as he stirs the pot of chili in front of him.

Without his boots on, Illya moves silently through the apartment, and Napoleon loses track of him until he hears a low groan from somewhere down the hall. Over the past few months he’s become quite adept at intepreting his roommates various nonverbal expressions, although fortunately the Russian is also no longer as tight-lipped as he had been at the start.

“Long day, Peril?” he calls out, and a few seconds later Illya’s head pops into the kitchen.

“Yes,” he answers simply. At one point that would have been all Napoleon would have gotten from him, but now he knows he’ll hear more about it later. Undoubtely something to do Illya’s insane boss and his exacting, impossible standards. Illya sniffs once and his lips make a particular frown that means _smells good_. “I’m going to take a shower before Chop Shop gets here.”

Napoleon puts down his spoon and turns toward the other man. “She didn’t text you? She can’t make it tonight. Got held up at the shop. Just you and me tonight, my friend.”

Illya shakes his head, but he doesn’t look too put out by this news. Missing their standing Wednesday dinner is rare, but whenever one ends up busy the other two still get together. Napoleon has a late class tomorrow, but Gaby will no doubt drop by at some point to devour the leftover chili with Illya. Plus, they often end up sharing meals outside of their Wednesday dinners; he and Illya eat together a few nights a week anyway, when their schedules happen to line up, whether one of them cooks or it’s just takeout.

His roommate looks like he’s about to withdraw from the kitchen, when his brow furrows and his head cocks a fraction of an inch, as if he’s just noticing the music softly playing in the background. “Christmas music, Cowboy?”

“’Tis the season,” Napoleon shrugs. Usually he tries to keep it to himself because he knows not everyone enjoys holiday tunes, but well, this is _his_ kitchen for the night. “Not a fan, I take it?”  
  
To his surprise, Illya just frowns thoughtfully. “It’s a bit saccharine for my tastes.”

“I dare you to listen to _Fairytale of New York_ and find it saccharine,” Napoleon argues, pointing a finger at him. “Or _Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis_ , for that matter.”  
  
Illya looks exceedingly skeptical at this, and it makes Napoleon chuckle. “That’s a song?”

“You haven’t lived until you’ve heard Tom Waits growl about being pregnant and in prison on Christmas.”

“You have very strange taste, Cowboy,” Illya says, making a face. Never mind the fact that Bing is currently crooning the most saccharine of Christmas songs over the speakers, which kind of negates both Napoleon’s and Illya’s arguments at the same time.

Napoleon laughs again and turns back to the stove. “Go take your shower. Cornbread will be out of the oven soon.”

He’d been right about Illya’s boss, as it turns out. The man referred to by his underlings only as ‘The Tzar’ had been on the warpath again, blowing through the design studio like a hurricane and ripping the young designers’ work to shreds, sometimes quite literally. For once Illya had actually been spared, but the aftermath always left everyone rattled, and he’d spent the afternoon mostly serving as a large, solid shoulder to cry on.

“It’s not like we even have a collection coming up, there’s nothing over the holidays,” Illya complains, barely pausing in wolfing down his chili. “I think he just feels a need to come down and be terrifying every so often, to make sure we don’t forget.”

“So does that mean you’re safe from having to deal with him for a little while, now?”

Illya shrugs. “Probably. Sophie says he barely makes an appearance at the holiday party.” There’s a beat. “Speaking of…” he sighs, trailing off, suddenly reticent. It’s an odd look on him.

“What?” Napoleon asks, staring at him expectantly.

“It’s next Friday,” his roommate answers, grimacing like he was talking about a dental appointment, or maybe getting tortured for state secrets.

Napoleon can’t help but huff out a laugh at him as he munches on his cornbread. “What’s the problem, Peril? Don’t you have holiday parties in Russia?”

“No,” Illya grumbles. “New Year’s, yes, but not parties in mid-December, too.”

“Nothing wrong with more parties. I promise, they’re not that bad. And you even like some of your coworkers, so that’s a huge plus.”

“I know, Sophie and Mara say it’s very fancy. Spare no expense, and all that,” Illya allows. He hesitates again, then adds, “It’s just… they want us to bring significant others.”

“So?” Napoleon says through a mouthful of cornbread. “You don’t have one, unless you’re secretly dating someone without me knowing?”

Illya winces and stares fixedly into his bowl. “They think I do.”

There’s a beat, and Napoleon swallows. “Ah. Anyone in particular, or…?”

Even as he asks, he suddenly knows that he does not want to know the answer to that question. Not really. There is no circumstance in which it is a good idea for him to find out the kind of person that his roommate would serve up as some idealized partner when lying to his coworkers. Probably said person is entirely made up, probably some equally tall and beautiful Russian, maybe even still back in Russia, which would make the most sense, honestly, and—

“It’s you, Cowboy.”

Napoleon’s mind goes entirely blank. The cornbread he’d been holding drops from his grasp and lands with a dull thunk on the table as he stares at Illya in disbelief. “ _What?_ ” he chokes out.

“They think we are a couple,” Illya says, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

_Fuck_. Napoleon blinks at him. This has to be a prank, or a dream, or _something_ besides what is actually happening. He cannot process this at all, cannot think about the fact that the man he’s hopelessly in love with has been apparently telling his coworkers that they’ve been _dating_ for who knows how long, and it’s all far, far too much. But Illya is still staring at him, waiting for some actual reaction, and so Napoleon does the only thing he can do right now. He retreats into snark.

“Yes, Peril, I do in fact understand what you meant, what I don’t get is where they got this idea,” he says dryly, arcing an eyebrow at his roommate.

“Well, you text me all the time during the day,” Illya offers, like that explains anything at all.

“Ok,” Napoleon says slowly. It’s true, he does text Illya a lot, but he also texts Gaby a lot. In fact, at least half of those are in their group text, so they hardly count. “But I cannot believe that your coworkers think _texting_ someone frequently means you’re a couple. What are they, eighty years old?”

“You know they’re not,” Illya retorts, frowning at him.

“So are you going to tell me the real reason, or what?”

Illya huffs and looks away across the room, a muscle in his jaw popping out as he clenches his teeth together. “They would not stop trying to set me up on dates,” he grits out after a moment, “and I kind of… snapped. You were convenient.”

“Oh well, then, if I was _convenient_ ,” Napoleon shoots back, his voice dripping with sarcasm that he hopes conceals the hurt.

He shouldn’t have asked. He should have just let it drop, or laughed it off. For one brief moment he almost let himself believe that it meant something, that he might actually be the kind of person Illya would be interested in, and now, well, ain’t reality a bitch?

At least Illya has the grace to look guilty about it. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Napoleon cuts him off, even though he knows his tone says exactly the opposite. Probably he should try to sell this better. He takes a steadying breath, and is pleased with how ok he sounds when he speaks again. “Really, I promise. I’m guessing that you’re telling me this now because they’re expecting me to come to this party.”

“They really want to meet you, Cowboy,” Illya says apologetically.

Napoleon sighs, pushing a hand back through his hair. “Of _course_ they do.”

“There will be lots of fancy food? And champagne?” Illya pleads, and fuck, he’s turning on the puppy dog eyes, goddamn him. “Just for one night. I’ll owe you.”

Oh, hell. Napoleon knows he’s going to do it. It’s going to kill him, but he’s going to do it anyway. On the one thing he should actually refuse to do for his own mental health, Napoleon is going to cave, because he will always cave for Illya. To his everlasting, undying misery.

“Ugh, fine, sure,” he says. “Yes, Peril, I will come to your office holiday party and pretend to be your boyfriend.”

The look of relief and gratitude on Illya’s face is going to haunt him for days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. “Everything is alright. Cowboy asks a lot of questions. Yes, I know that they're always like that. No, don't know, didn't ask. Sorry, gotta run, I'll call back later. Love you, kisses.” [return to text]
> 
> Thanks to daniel_404 (tumblr: danya_is_an_idiot) for providing the Russian translation and Russianifying my text!


	2. Chapter 2

He’d been doing so well, damn it. Ok, maybe not _well_ , because he is still in love with the man who is his roommate and now one of his closest friends, but as well as could be expected under the circumstances. He’d come to an equilibrium of sorts. As their friendship grew, his feelings did as well, but so did his desire not to muck things up with some kind of stupid declaration. Illya had shown no hint of romantic interest in him—or anyone else, for that matter—and so Napoleon buried the feelings as best he could. Day to day, it’s not so bad.

That was all before Illya confessed that he’d been telling his coworkers that they were a couple for at least a month. A _month_. It was impossible not to let his mind run wild with possibilites. Did Illya’s coworkers ask about him, and what did Illya tell them? Did he make up fake dates for them? Of course, knowing Illya, he avoided saying as much as possible, but from what he’d told Napoleon about his coworkers they didn’t seem like the types to give up easily.

They don’t talk about it again, because of course they don’t. Between Napoleon’s classes and Illya’s work schedule they don’t actually see each other the next day at all, and by the following one things seemingly have returned to business as usual, like it’s no big deal. Napoleon supposes it might not be, for Illya, but the party looms large in his own mind, and the one person he can actually talk to about the situation is… less than supportive.

“Oh, you are fucked,” is the first thing Gaby says to him when he tells her.

Napoleon frowns at her across the narrow coffee shop table. “I hardly think it’s that bad—”

“Seriously? His coworkers are going to see through you in a second.”

“Give me a little credit, Gaby, I’ve managed to keep it under wraps for this long,” he replies indignantly.

She just shakes her head and takes a long sip of her latte before she fixes him with a pitying expression. “That’s just the thing, though. You can’t keep how much you love him ‘under wraps’ when you’re pretending to be a couple. Hence: you are fucked.”

“Well then I guess it will just help sell the deception,” he sniffs, trying to pretend like he hasn’t thought endlessly about just this problem. There’s going to be a fine line between being believable and showing all his cards, and he knows he’ll have to tread carefully to avoid giving too much away.

“Man, I cannot miss this,” Gaby says, grinning at him. “I am so going to this party.”

Napoleon snorts at that. “Oh yeah? And just how are you going to get an invite?”

“Don’t underestimate me, Solo,” she replies, and he can already see the wheels turning in her head. “I’ll find a way.”

“Assuming you manage it,”—because of course she will—“you’re going to be required to be my moral support, you know.”

Gaby shrugs at him, smirking. “Sure. As long as I also get to watch you flounder under the questions of a bunch of nosy busibodies.”

“Gee, thanks. You don’t have to look so delighted,” Napoleon accuses, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

“With the amount of pining I’ve had to listen to, I think I’m entitled to a little amusement,” she shoots back. “Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something.”  
  
“More like playing a practical joke on me,” he mutters.

It’s snowing again, large fat flakes that drift slowly to the ground and blanket the world rapidly in a thick layer of white, and he watches them as he stares out the window next to their table, trying and failing not to brood. After a moment he sees Gaby lean forward out of the corner of his eye, and she places a comforting hand on his forearm.  
  
“Hey, you’ll be fine,” she tells him, her voice soft. All the humor and teasing is gone from her expression now. “Knowing fashion designers, they’ll probably all be too wrapped up in their own drama to bother you. And if you need me to cut a bitch, just say so.”

That pulls a laugh out of him, and he shakes his head fondly at her. “Thanks, Gaby. What would I do without you?”

“Doesn’t bear contemplation,” she answers, a small, smug smile slipping onto her lips as she takes another sip of her coffee and joins him in staring out at the snow.

* * *

Napoleon can’t decide whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing that the days seem to fly by, but the Friday of the party sneaks up on him like a tiger. Or maybe a snow leopard, given the weather. Everyone at Illya’s design house is given the day off, so Napoleon takes the opportunity to catch up on some of the restoration work he’d been putting off at his boss’s small studio to get himself out of the apartment. They were fortunate to get regular work from the smaller art museums and galleries in the city, based mainly on the strength of Waverly’s reputation as a skilled conservator. Napoleon knows how lucky he was to get the position, even if Gaby still insists he’s selling himself short when he says things like that.

That day he’s cleaning up a small Mary Cassatt canvas that had just been unearthed out of someone’s attic and donated to a collection on the Upper West Side. There’s something meditative about the work, about losing himself in the small, precise movements necessary to clean off a century’s worth of dirt and grime without damaging the precious paint underneath. He loves studying the brush strokes up close and taking in the unique way each artist interacted with the materials, putting himself in their shoes and imagining each decision as his own.

He gets so lost in it that the afternoon slips away from him, and he only realizes how late it’s gotten when he gets a text from Illya inquiring as to where he is. Somehow he can sense the panic in the few, spare words that his roommate sends. There’s not that much time until they have to depart and Napoleon is covered in an ungodly mix of filth and cleaning solvents, so he leaves a hastily scrawled note for Waverly and books it out the door. In a way it’s probably a good thing, because in his rush to get home and get ready for the party he doesn’t have time to worry about what he’s about to get himself into.

Napoleon is doing up the buttons on his waistcoat with a few minutes to spare when there’s a soft knock on the half-open door to his bedroom. The fact that even this causes a sudden spike in his heart rate does not bode well for the rest of the evening.

“You can come in,” Napoleon calls out. He doesn’t turn immediately, instead taking a moment to focus on the fabric in his fingers, trying let it ground him.

Illya takes a few steps into the room and stops, apparently hesistating, and Napoleon wonders if he’s nervous too. He is, after all, relying on Napoleon to sell his lie, to say nothing of whatever discomfort he might have with the nature of said lie.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” Illya asks.

Napoleon glances up to look at his roomate in the full length mirror that he’s standing in front of and finds a tiny, wry smile on his lips.

“Yeah. Is that a problem? Am I going to embarrass you in front of your fashionista colleagues?” he replies. He’s wearing one of his favorite suits, a dark blue with a subtle windowpane pattern. The styling is a little retro, he knows, but if you’re going to channel the Rat Pack, Christmas seems the time to do it.

Illya huffs a soft laugh, dropping his eyes. “No. You look good, Cowboy. I’ve never seen you in a suit.”

“Clearly you’ve been missing out,” Napoleon says cheekily, faking more confidence than he feels. He turns, finally, to face his roommate, and when Illya looks up at him again there’s something Napoleon can’t quite read in his gaze.

“Clearly.”

For his part, Illya is dressed in a sleek, modern black suit paired with a matching black shirt, his ruby red tie and pocket square the only pops of color. The entire effect is rather stunning, and it makes Napoleon’s mouth go dry.

“Nice suit, Peril,” he manages, hoping the tightness in his voice isn’t noticeable.

“Thanks,” Illya says, glancing down at himself briefly. It seems to remind him that he’s holding a smallish fabric-covered box, which he turns over in his hands before he holds it out to Napoleon. “This is for you.”

Napoleon furrows his brow as he takes it, giving Illya a confused look, but his roommate provides no further explanation for this unexpected gift. He can’t really conceive of what it could possibly be, and is completely flabbergasted when he opens the clamshell box to find a breathtaking silk tie coiled within. The fine fabric is woven into a subtle diamond pattern, and Napoleon knows immediately that the shade of blue will exactly match his eyes.

“Peril, what—” he chokes out, looking up at his roommate with wide eyes.

Illya drops his gaze to the floor again, his cheeks flushing pink. “Ah, you can thank Mara for that. She insisted I get something for you for the party, helped me pick it out. I hope you like it?”

“It’s gorgeous,” Napoleon breathes, thanking whatever deity might be listening that his hand doesn’t tremble when he goes to take it out of the box. He holds it up in front of his chest and attempts his best approximation at an insouciant grin. “What do you think, does it go with the suit?”

“It does,” Illya confirms, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Napoleon chucks the box onto the bed and pops the collar of his shirt up, but before he can do anything more Illya crosses the remaining space between them and plucks the tie from his hands, slipping it over his head. And then—dear lord—he starts _tying_ it, a tiny crease of concentration appearing between his eyebrows. Napoleon wants to protest that he can tie a tie just fine himself, thank you very much, and that he doesn’t need Illya’s assistance, but the words catch in his throat and all he can do is stand there in shock, mouth hanging open ever so slightly.

Thank god his roommate is too focused on his task to notice. Illya is close enough now that Napoleon can smell his shampoo and a hint of aftershave, and abruptly Napoleon feels like he’s not going to survive this night. And they haven’t even left the apartment. Turns out, Gaby was entirely right: he _is_ fucked.

* * *

Napoleon hadn’t asked where the party was being held. He’d just kind of assumed it would be nearby the design house, which he knew was somewhere in Chelsea, but that turned out to be entirely wrong. They had to dodge throngs of tourists as they exited the Rockefeller Center subway station, but even then he didn’t expect to be led down West 49th Street, into a ritzy lobby, and onto an elevator to the very top floor of a building overlooking _The_ Tree.

“Holy shit, Peril,” he huffs when the elevator doors close behind them, “you didn’t say this was basically at Rockefeller Center.”

Illya just shoots him a look like Napoleon is the weird one here. “So?”

“So, this is kind of a big deal! You did happen to notice the giant fucking Christmas tree in the middle of the plaza when we came in, right?”

“I might have,” Illya answers cagily, looking straight ahead as he presses his lips together in a clear attempt to fight back a smile at Napoleon’s antics.

“Russians,” Napoleon sighs, shaking his head as he looks up at the climbing numbers on the elevator display.

They climb steadily higher, and Napoleon can feel his nerves growing with each successive number. He draws in a deep breath as subtly as he can manage, though it’s still obvious in the quiet, enclosed space. The elevator slows a floor or two before the top, and suddenly Illya grabs his hand, linking their fingers together. Napoleon turns to look at him in surprise, but then the doors are opening and he remembers that the very last thing he should be is surprised that his supposed boyfriend is holding his hand.

A weak smile flits across Illya’s face, only the second time he’s shown any sign of nerves tonight. Napoleon gives him his most reassuring grin in return as they step out into the space together; no point in letting on to Illya how freaked out he _actually_ is.

The top floor of this particular building has been clearly turned into a large, open-plan event space, currently festooned with lights and garlands and a variety of stylishly-decorated Christmas trees. At one end of the room there is a large fireplace with several armchairs and couches clustered around it, and at the other is a grand piano at which someone is currently playing Christmas tunes. Waiters slip around in between clusters of guests, passing hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne, as promised. Directly opposite the elevators, one exterior wall is composed of floor to ceiling windows, and based on the lights he can see shining from below, Napoleon thinks he knows what it overlooks. Before he can investigate, though, they are waylayed by a pair of immaculately dressed and styled ladies with utterly delighted expressions on their faces.

“Illya!” one of them squeals, grabbing onto Illya’s free arm. “Thank goodness you’re here. Peter is starting to get all ranty and you know I just can _not_ deal with— oh!” She breaks off as the other one nudges her not-so-subtly, grinning shark-like at Napoleon.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” she purrs, dark eyes glinting in the low light.

“You hardly gave me a chance,” Illya grumbles, but there is unmistakable fondness in his tone. “Sophie, Mara, this is—”

“Na _po_ leon!” one of them, a red-head, gushes. Napoleon still isn’t sure which is which. She grabs his free hand in both of hers and squeezes. “Illya has told us _so_ much about you.”  
  
Napoleon cocks an eyebrow at this. “Has he now?” He directs a quizzical glance over at his roommate and is momentarily surprised to find Illya looking distinctly… red.

“But he did _not_ tell us how _gorgeous_ you are and now I’m a little miffed at you for holding out on us, Illya,” the brunette adds, rounding on him.

“I—” Illya chokes, looking entirely like a deer caught in the headlights.

Oh fuck, this is going to be a disaster if this is how Illya is going to react. Napoleon squeezes his hand hard to try to snap him out of it, then directs a self-deprecating smile at the girls. “Well, maybe he doesn’t think I’m that good-looking.”  
  
“That’s not true,” Illya blurts, and Napoleon sees his eyes go wide as he realizes what he’s just said. He doesn’t have even a second to contemplate this reaction, though, because the girls are still going.

“No, empirically, you are ridiculously attractive,” the brunette says, apparently oblivious to Illya’s panic. “That’s just a fact. _I_ think he just was trying to keep you all to himself.”

Napoleon tries to laugh, and it only comes out a little stiff. “You know how he is. Never wants to show off.”

“We do,” the red-head agrees, nodding vehemently. “God, he’s always designing the most gorgeous things and burying them in the back of his sketchbook. Like, come _on_ , you need to take a leap occasionally.”

“And what are you doing pawing through my sketchbooks?” Illya asks, seeming to shake off his paralysis and come back to himself.

“Hmm, it’s not pawing if you just leave them lying around,” she retorts.

“Oh!” the brunette says suddenly, grabbing onto the other. “We need to go rescue poor Andrew before the Tzar snares him.”

Napoleon follows their gaze to where a young, slight, dark-haired man in a deep burgundy suit is being approached by an older, severe-looking man with a permanent frown etched onto his face. Before he can even really parse what is happening the girls are giving their apologies and hurrying off toward them like a pair of small whirlwinds.

“Yeah, but who’s gonna save Andrew from them?” Napoleon mutters to Illya, leaning in close as he watches them, and is rewarded by a huffed out laugh from his roommate. When he steals a glance, Illya is already looking more relaxed, and Napoleon gives his hand a tentative squeeze again, trying not to think about the fact that they are still linked together. “You ok? You looked a little… overwhelmed.”

“They are always overwhelming, Cowboy. Just caught me a little off guard. I’m fine,” he insists. “Let’s go get a drink, yes?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

In retrospect, they probably should have discussed the “backstory” of their fake relationship before the party. It’s only when Napoleon gets cornered alone by the red-head—Sophie, it turns out—that he realizes he doesn’t really know what Illya has told them. In the end, he decides to just stick as close to the truth as possible and hope he doesn’t say anything contradictory.

“So you started as roommates, huh?” Sophie says, looking at him with a bright expression that clearly shows she’s hoping to pry details out of him. “How’d that work? Who made the first move?”  
  
“It was Illya, actually,” he tells her. “Just kind of dropped it on me one day at dinner, if you can believe it.”

She laughs, looking delighted at this. “Oh, I can. Totally a surprise?”  
  
“Yeah,” Napoleon sighs. “You could say that. I, uh, had a crush on him for quite a while, though, so it worked out.”

Fuck, it’s hard to say those words. He can’t help but fantasize about them being true, can’t help but imagine how it would have felt if Illya had confessed real feelings for him rather than a relationship he made up out of convenience. It’s a dangerous road to travel on, he knows.

“Awww, that’s so cute,” Sophie coos. “Honestly, I feel like it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a couple so obviously in love. Like, it would be disgusting if I wasn’t so happy for you guys.”  
  
Napoleon chokes on his champagne mid-sip and narrowly avoids a spit-take. “Oh?” he coughs out, giving her a curious look. “It’s that obvious?”

“Oh yeah, painfully. But I guess everything is pretty new, too. You’re still in the honeymoon phase. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Right,” Napoleon says, praying he sounds less miserable than he feels.

Well, at least they’re selling the relationship, apparently. He drains the rest of his champagne and casts around for a waiter, but unfortunately there are none in the immediate vicinity. Briefly he wonders how long he’s going to have to stand here and basically fantasize out loud to a perfect stranger, but then a completely unexpected savior swoops in to rescue him.

“Solo, darling,” Gaby purrs, passing him a full glass of champagne before slipping an arm around his waist. “What'd you do with your man?”

He doesn’t know when she arrived, but she’s here now, wearing in a stunning sparkling green dress that perfectly compliments her complexion. She smiles up at him, sympathy lurking behind her eyes, and Napoleon doesn’t know that he’s ever been so happy to see someone.  
  
“I think he just stepped out to go to the restroom,” he tells her. “Have you met Sophie?”  
  
“Oh yes, we met earlier,” Gaby says, smiling at the other woman. “It’s so nice to meet some of Illya’s work friends.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Sophie enthuses. “We’re all just so glad he has you two. It’s tough, moving so far.”

They chat idly about international moves and living in New York for a little while longer, and the conversation blissfully stays away from his supposed relationship with Illya. Finally Sophie excuses herself to go find Mara again, leaving Napoleon and Gaby alone.

“How are you doing?” she asks gently, clutching his forearm with a steadying hand.

“Oh, you know,” he answers with a pained smile, letting some of the desperation show through in his voice for the first time that night, “terribly. But I’ll manage.”

Gaby frowns at him. “I’m sure he’d be ok with leaving early, if you wanted,” she suggests.

“Really, I’m fine,” he says unconvincingly. “You were right, though. If I have to listen to someone else talk about how in love we look…” At this, she presses her lips together, like she’s avoiding saying something. Which is highly odd, for Gaby. “Out with it,” he prompts.

“It’s just… I’ve been watching you two since I got here. You _do_ , and it’s not just you, Solo,” she confesses, biting her lower lip. “I’m not so sure your feelings aren’t reciprocated.”

Napoleon snorts at her in disbelief. “He must be a pretty good actor, if he’s got you fooled. It’s not like you haven’t been around us before.”

“Not like this, though. His guard is down, maybe for the first time since I’ve known him.”

“Don’t,” Napoleon says harshly, glaring at her. “Don’t you dare. I don’t need _you_ giving me false hope, of all people.”

Gaby sighs, that pitying look back on her face. Suddenly, the champagne is bitter on his palate. He knocks the rest of it back and slams the glass down on the table so hard that the base cracks, then curls his hands into fists by his side.

“Hey,” she says softly, wrapping one of his fists in her hands. “I’m sorry, I know how tough this is for you.” He takes a deep breath and forces his fist to loosen, and she slips her hands in, rubbing soothing circles over the back of his palm. “Look, we’ll talk about something else. Is that a new tie?”  
  
Napoleon chokes out a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sob, shaking his head as she looks at him in confusion. “He gave it to me, before we came. Mara helped him pick it out.”

“Fuck,” she says, staring at him with wide eyes.

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

* * *

Illya finds him standing at the bank of windows, staring out at the scene below. It’s utterly breathtaking: the building looks down onto the massive Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, lit up with thousands of glittering lights, and the large skating rink that sits at his base.1 From this height the people tracing circles on its icy surface are like minatures, and Napoleon has been watching them for a while now, blissfully unmolested by anyone else at the party.

His gaze doesn’t waver when he sees Illya’s familiar form step up beside him out of the corner of his eye, close enough that their shoulders brush. Illya hesitates for a moment, and then he tentatively slides his arm behind Napoleon’s waist, hand coming to rest on the top of his hip. Napoleon senses more than sees the questioning glance Illya gives him, as if seeking to confirm that this is ok.

He has to fight back a sigh. Why wouldn’t it be? They’re still a fake couple, after all, for a few more hours at least. Instead, he leans slightly into Illya’s touch and tries to ignore the warmth that blooms in his chest. _It’s not real_ , he reminds himself.

“There’s a skating rink down there,” Illya says, finally looking down at the scene below them.

Napoleon snorts softly. “Yeah, only the most famous one in all of New York City.” Illya is silent for a beat, and Napoleon glances over at him. There is a look of unmistakable, intense wistfulness on Illya’s face that’s momentarily surprising. “You skate?”

“When I was younger,” Illya answers, and the longing colors his voice as well. “Reminds me of home.”

 _Huh_. An idea begins forming in his mind; it’s ridiculous, he knows, especially because they’re not _actually_ dating and it’s not exactly something you would just do for a roommate, but he knows he’s going to do it anyway. Blame the season, blame the champagne, blame the arm wrapped around his waist that fits entirely too perfectly.

Napoleon is still looking at his roommate as he stares down at the rink, apparently mesmerized by the scene below, when abruptly Illya gasps, eyes going wide. The flash of lights is reflected in Illya’s eyes, and Napoleon smiles because he knows exactly what he’s looking at without turning his head. He’s seen the light show at Rockefeller countless times, but watching Illya react to it is a new and amazing experience.

“What was that?” Illya asks when the holiday lights on the tree and the crystal topper eventually stop flashing.

“Happens every hour, top of the hour.”

“Hmm. Not bad.”

Napoleon laughs at this so typically _Illya_ comment and resists pointing out that look on his face suggested that he thought it was a little more impressive than ‘not bad’. He glances down at the tree again, and when he looks back up he finds that Illya has turned his head to stare at him now and oh, their faces are so, so close. Illya’s tongue slides out to wet his lips as he presses them together, and there is some new thing in his eyes, something that Napoleon cannot try to understand. He finds himself swaying closer without meaning to, drawn toward Illya like the Russian has his own gravitational field. The moment feels fragile, like the smallest thing could shatter it, and he barely dares to breathe.

“ _Mistletoe!_ ” someone yells from behind them.

Both of them jump in surprise, pulling apart slightly as they turn to see Mara standing on her tip-toes, trying to hold a sprig of greenery over their heads. Napoleon had clocked the location of the mistletoe when they arrived to make sure that they stayed far away from it, but he should have known that as the night wore on it might not stay there.

“You’re too short for that,” Illya tells her dryly. “It’s not actually over our heads.”

Mara sticks her tongue out at him and gives a little hop. “Spoil sport. Don’t make me get a chair.”

Despite their withdrawal from their previous position Illya’s hand is still resting on his lower back, and Napoleon feels his hand flex slightly, fingertips digging into the fabric of his jacket. Illya is clearly uncomfortable, although he’s doing a reasonably good job of not showing it in his expression.

“Mara, come on,” Illya says, rolling his eyes at her, but Napoleon can tell that she’s drunk enough at this point to not give up.

There are a few others nearby watching the scene, but not a huge number, and Napoleon makes a snap decision. With a short, steadying breath, he leans in and presses his lips to Illya’s cheek for a brief moment, cutting off whatever else he might be about to say. It’s short and hardly passionate, but Napoleon is still overwhelmed for a second by the scent of Illya filling his nose and the feel of his skin under his lips. He pulls away as quickly as he surged in, avoiding meeting Illya’s eyes, though there’s no mistaking the stiffness in the other man’s posture.

“Aww, that was adorable but not _really_ in the spirit of the season, don’t you think?” Mara presses.

Napoleon just shrugs, cocking an eyebrow at her. “Neither is sneaking up and holding mistletoe over people’s heads,” he retorts pointedly.

“Hmph,” she pouts, but the argument works. She pulls her arm back and stalks off to find other some other unsuspecting victims.

A waiter glides by a moment later and Napoleon snags a glass of champagne off his tray, draining half of it at once in an attempt to calm the jitters coursing through his body. Illya takes another step away, finally dropping his hand away from Napoleon’s back; his skin prickles with the loss of contact even as the champagne fizzes in his throat.

“Thank you, Cowboy,” Illya says quietly. “Should have known they would try something.”

Napoleon risks a glance at him and finds him staring at the floor, hands pushed deep into his pockets. “Don’t mention it, Peril.”

“About ready to get out of here?” Illya asks, a tiny, wry smile curling the corners of his mouth when he looks up again.

“Absolutely,” Napoleon answer, huffing out a chuckle, then nods across the room to where Gaby appears to have been cornered by another of Illya’s colleagues. “Shall we rescue her before we beat our retreat?”

Illya hums uncertainly, mischief playing in his expression. “She was the one who couldn’t help but find a way to come spy on us,” he points out, “but I suppose so.”

Turns out, Gaby is more than grateful when they collect her, and the three of them almost immediately fall into their usual banter as they grab their coats and pile into the elevator. It’s simple and easy and painfully _normal_ at the end of a night that was decidedly not, and it’s kind of amazing how relieved Napoleon feels. They pulled it off, and maybe, just maybe, Napoleon managed to not fuck up a friendship that has come to mean more to him than he could have imagined three months ago. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [Here are some photos](https://www.bucketlisters.com/blog/88-the-ice-rink-at-rockefeller-center-set-to-open-next-weekend) of the tree and the ice rink, in case you're unfamiliar![return to text]


	3. Chapter 3

Napoleon asks himself what the _fuck_ he’s thinking at least a hundred times over course of the next week. Somehow it’s still not enough to make him change his mind. He tells himself that it’s nothing more than good friends would do for each other, even though he has to swear a rather significant future favor to an old acquaintance to pull it off.

He tells Illya to keep the next Tuesday evening free and his roommate agrees, though not without some significant skepticism. Napoleon spends the time he’s not in class at the studio again, but this time he makes sure he’s home before Illya, which only serves to make him pace restlessly. He’s got to work all of his nerves out now so that he can be totally cool tonight. It’s no big deal. Just a guys night out.

“I don’t like surprises, Cowboy,” Illya frowns at him when Napoleon refuses to give him any hints of what they’re doing.

“You’ll like this one,” Napoleon insists, hoping desperately he’s right. “Dress for the cold, but also to so you can move easily?”

Illya hums at this suggestion and narrows his eyes, but does as Napoleon bids. He continues to watch Napoleon closely, like he’s waiting for him to slip up, as they get on the B train and head into Manhattan. Every time the train pulls into another station he glares at Napoleon suspiciously, until Napoleon can’t fight back the huge grin that wants to take over his face. Who knew that taunting Illya into being grumpy about a surprise would be almost as delightful as the surprise itself?

“Where are we going, Cowboy?” Illya asks for what must be the twentieth time as they get off the train at the Rockefeller Center station.

Napoleon just presses his lips together smugly and leads them down West 49th Street. Ducking around the rear of the skating rink, he avoids the barricades set up to direct people into the long, winding lines and walks confidently up to an unmarked door. Illya follows him, grumbling the whole way, but Napoleon ignores him. He feels a kind of euphoric excitement at what’s coming, like the more suspicious and surly Illya becomes, the better the surprise will be.

The door opens not long after he knocks, revealing a familiar face wearing a rather unimpressed expression. “Solo,” he drawls, casting a long, lingering gaze over Napoleon and Illya, “and guest.”

“Hey Matt,” Napoleon smiles. “When’s the next session start?”

“Ten minutes. Come on, then.”

Matt turns and disappears back into the staging area behind the rink, leading them through barely heated narrow halls until they pop out into an area where a small collection of people sit on benches, lacing up their ice skates.

“Sizes,” Matt says, sounding supremely put out by this imposition.

Whatever. Nothing can dampen Napoleon’s good mood now, especially now that Illya’s eyes are getting wider by the minute. Napoleon tells him his own size, then glances up at Illya expectantly. “Peril? Your skate size?”

Illya blinks at him for a moment, like he doesn’t understand the question, then finally gives a number. When Matt disappears into the back to fetch the skates, he turns more fully toward Napoleon. “Cowboy, what did you do?”

Napoleon shrugs as nonchalantly as he can manage while also still grinning like an idiot. “You said it reminded you of home. Thought you might enjoy a bit of time on the ice. The sessions aren’t super long here, but you can’t beat the view.” A burst of nervousness surge through him when Illya’s only reaction to this seems to be utter shock, and it only gets worse when Illya starts blinking faster and his eyes look distinctly… damp. “Peril? Is everything ok?”

And then, abruptly, he’s wrapped up in a pair of strong arms as Illya envelopes him in a crushing hug that momentarily threatens to squeeze the air out of Napoleon’s lungs. Which, in the moment, Napoleon thinks is completely worth it.

“Hate to interrupt this _touching_ moment,” Matt drawls sarcastically behind them. “But you need to put on your skates if you’re going to, you know, _skate_.”

Illya pulls away with a short, sharp sniff, keeping his eyes trained on the ground as he wordlessly grabs the proffered skates and carries them over to a bench. As much as he would like to, Napoleon resists the urge to scowl at the rink attendant and instead gives him his least sincere smile.

“Thanks again Matt. I owe you.”

“You certainly do. I hope it’s worth it.”

Napoleon glances over to where Illya sits, lacing his skates, and feels a blistering warmth fill his chest and press into his bones despite the chill in the air. “It is,” he murmurs, but Matt is already gone again.

Everyone else is already filing out onto the ice and Illya is nearly done with his skates, so Napoleon puts on his own as fast as possible, cursing fingers already stiff from the cold. He’s not sure exactly what will happen when he gets out there; it’s been a _really_ long time since he’s gone ice skating, and he doesn’t totally trust his muscle memory to kick in right away. If he makes a fool of himself, so be it. Tonight is about Illya, not him.

Illya still doesn’t speak as they walk toward the door, but Napoleon knows not to push him. The silence isn’t necessarily a bad thing; over the past months he’s learned that sometimes it takes his roommate a bit to process things, especially when said things evoke strong emotions. He also knows, now, that Illya will open up when he’s ready, and Napoleon is nothing if not patient when he wants to be.

And anyway, his own body shifts the mood for him when he steps on the ice and immediately goes sliding somewhat erratically away from the boards. He doesn’t _fall_ , thank you very much, but he does take a minute to get his feet under him, and when he finally regains some stability he looks up to find Illya _laughing_ at him.

“Oh, very nice, Peril, this is the thanks I get,” he huffs, though his attempt at a scowl doesn’t last long.

Napoleon starts skating away, not exactly smoothly or quickly, and Illya catches him up immediately. It’s not hard to see that the Russian is incredibly comfortable on the ice, moving so fluidly that he looks almost more at home on it than on the pavement. Still, he skates sedately next to Napoleon, like he’s completely content to move at his roommate’s awkward pace.

“You don’t have to stick next to me, Peril,” Napoleon tells him eventually. “Go on, have fun. I’ll be here when you need a breather.”

Illya looks unmistakably excited about this, though he’s definitely trying not to. “You’re sure?”  
  
“Course I’m sure.”

Watching Illya skate, _really_ skate, is a revelation. He glides across the surface effortlessly, weaving in between small children and teenagers and lovers holding hands at a rapid clip. There are some others on the ice that are clearly good, probably skate every winter, but they don’t hold a candle to Illya. A few of them take to the center to try a spin or a jump, and Napoleon sees Illya watching them carefully each time. His roommate never does anything fancy himself, although Napoleon gets the distinct impression that he certainly could.

Instead he just circles the rink, lapping Napoleon constantly, and every time he passes they link eyes for a second and Illya can’t seem to help giving him the most brilliant smile he’s ever seen. It leaves him far more breathless than the skating. After an uncountable number of laps he slows again, falling into stride next to Napoleon, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“I take it you’re having a good time, Peril?” Napoleon ventures, though it’s abundantly clear that he is.

“Yes,” Illya answers at once. “It’s been too long.”  
  
Napoleon scoffs at him. “Not that long, clearly.”

“I’m a little rusty,” Illya shrugs, a sly smile curling his lips. “But maybe not as much as you, Cowboy.”

“I’m choosing to pace myself, thank you very much,” Napoleon tells him, and it’s the truth. By this point his movements have smoothed and become more automatic. He could go faster, but in all honesty he’d rather putter along around the outside and watch Illya. Not that he’s going to say this.

“So you’re telling me that you _can_ in fact skate faster than a very small child?”  
  
“Very funny, Peril,” Napoleon huffs in mock outrage. “I could definitely skate faster than at least 75% of these children.”

Illya laughs heartily at that, and the sound causes warmth to surge through Napoleon’s chest. “Is that so? And could you catch me?”  
  
“No,” Napoleon admits. “But you’re superhuman.”

Illya pushes forward just a bit, turning, then begins skating backward in front of him just as leisurely and easily as he had been skating forward. “What if I skate like this, hmm?”  
  
“Ok, now you’re just showing off,” Napoleon says, throwing his hands in the air.

“Come on, Cowboy,” Illya taunts, “surely you can catch me while I’m skating backward.” And then, making good on his challenge, he picks up his pace very slightly, widening the gap between them.

Napoleon huffs at him and pushes himself faster. “You’re gonna plow into someone and we’re gonna get thrown out.”

Illya just grins at him and weaves around people like he’s got eyes in the back of his head, the bastard. He barely looks like he’s expending energy at all, and the only reason Napoleon knows that he’s is steadily skating faster is that he has to keep pushing himself to keep up. It’s clear that in an endurance race Illya will certainly destroy him, and Napoleon knows his only hope is to catch him unawares in a sprint.

Because, after all, Illya knew exactly what he was doing. He knows that Napoleon has a competitve streak and could be goaded into a chase under the right circumstances. He quite accurately predicted that Napoleon _would_ think he could catch him skating backwards, that he could lure him into a race without so much as a starting bell. And just because Napoleon also knows exactly what Illya is doing, that doesn’t mean he won’t take the bait anyway.

Napoleon’s plan is complicated by the fact that Illya is watching him almost the entire time, but his roommate does in fact have to occasionally look behind him to check where he’s going. In another half lap they’ll have caught up with a cluster of families, and Illya will have no choice but to take his attention off of Napoleon for a few seconds longer than normal. Napoleon’s legs are screaming at him with the unfamiliar exertion, but there’s no way he’s giving up now.

Later, he would swear he had timed it perfectly, but the universe apparently had other ideas.

Napoleon waits until a gap opens behind Illya, to reduce the chances of actually running into one of the other skaters, before he makes his feint. “Hey, look out!” he calls, pointing at nothing beyond his roommate.

Illya had just checked behind him moments before but he whips his head around anyway, and Napoleon digs deep for the last remaining dregs of his energy to surge forward. Unfortunately, as if summoned by his bluff, at precisely that moment a small child breaks away from a cluster of people to their right and careens wildly into their path. Illya is too close to swerve so he brakes his skates instead, turning back to look at Napoleon just in time for Napoleon’s substantial momentum to carry him bodily into the Russian.

They collide hard, spinning out toward the middle of the rink for a moment as Napoleon grabs the front of Illya’s jacket in a desperate attempt to stay upright. It doesn’t work. Napoleon’s skates slip out from under him, knocking into Illya’s legs and dropping them both to the ice. As they go down he feels Illya grab behind his head, pulling forward to keep his skull from cracking into the ice, for which he’s obviously immensely grateful, though it does nothing for the fact that Illya lands on top of him with his full body weight.

All the air is forced from his lungs, and then he finds that he can’t breathe for an entirely different set of reasons. Illya is laying on top of him, hands still clutched on either side of Napoleon’s head, and their faces are inches apart. Illya’s warm breath huffs out over his face, and suddenly Napoleon is rather glad that his cheeks are already red from the cold and exertion.

“Caught you,” he breathes, grinning weakly. His hands are still fisted in the front of Illya’s coat, and he clenches them to drive home his point. If the movement pulls Illya’s face slightly closer, well, that’s a happy accident.

Illya scoffs at this assertion and gives his head a little shake. “Only because you cheated.”

“Hardly.”

They lie there for another moment, not moving, and it can’t be more than a few seconds but it feels like ages. Napoleon is trapped more by the weight of Illya’s icy blue gaze than by the body on top of him, though that certainly isn’t helping matters. Apparently Illya isn’t really that interested in moving, and his face drops closer to Napoleon’s every time he exhales heavily, inching forward by such miniscule fractions that the only reason he can tell it’s happening is that soon their noses are nearly brushing.

“ _Ladies and gentlemen, this skating session has now ended. Please make your way to the exit, and thank you for visiting the Rink at Rockefeller Center this holiday season._ ”

Napoleon closes his eyes and sighs heavily as Illya scrambles off of him. _Fuck_. When he opens them again he sees Illya offering a hand to help him up, which he accepts gratefully if a little disappointedly. His roommate’s face is an implacable mask, revealing no sign of whatever might have passed between them moments before. They skate slowly toward the door in the boards where the others are already filing out, and Napoleon takes several deep breaths to try to force the memory of Illya’s body on top of his out of his mind. As he comes off the ice, and older woman puts a hand on his arm and looks up at him with concern.  
  
“Are you ok, honey? That was quite a tumble you took out there.”

Napoleon smiles at her and nods. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he lies. He’s not fine, not emotionally at least, but he will be. “Thank you.”

“Good, good,” she says, patting him gently. “No doubt thanks to that quick thinking by your boyfriend, keeping your head from hitting the ice.”

“He’s not—” Napoleon starts quickly, looking for his roommate, but Illya is already across the room, collecting his shoes, and well out of earshot. He looks back down at the woman, who’s still smiling at him so nicely, and for some reason he just can’t shatter the illusion. “Yeah. Thanks to him.”

“You two have a happy holiday,” she tells him.

“And you as well,” Napoleon answers somewhat weakly as she turns away.

Illya has already got his shoes back on when Napoleon rejoins him, sitting down heavily on the bench and trying to ignore the way his muscles protest. He is going to be so fucking sore tomorrow. He can feel Illya watching him as he unlaces the skates and kicks them off, and can’t help but wonder what’s going through his roommate’s mind right now.

“Charming little old ladies now?”

Napoleon lets a corner of his mouth quirk up at that as he glances over at Illya. “She just wanted to make sure I was all right.”  
  
“And are you?” Illya asks. “All right?”

He pauses, looking up to meet Illya’s gaze again. There’s something heavy in his eyes, a thin thread of acknowledgement of what happened out on the ice, and Napoleon can tell he’s not just asking about aches and pains. What he can’t tell is what Illya means by it, can’t quite read the unspoken words written on his face.

“Yeah,” Napoleon answers, a little shortly, as he turns back to lacing his shoes. “Of course.” He finishes and stands, grabbing the skates, and looks down at Illya, his smile just a bit tight. “Come on, it’s almost time for the tree lights to go again, and I want to get some roasted chestnuts before.”

Illya follows him to return their skates, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly at this apparent return to normalcy. “We already saw the lights, last week.”  
  
“First, you can never see the lights too many times,” Napoleon tells him, “and second, you saw them from above, not standing under the tree. Completely different experience.”

The corners of Illya’s mouth curl slightly, and he gives a little fond shake of his head that makes Napoleon’s chest clench. “Whatever you say, Cowboy.”

Napoleon parks them in just the right spot—the spot that his parents would take him to, every year, when he was a little kid—but he still watches Illya instead of the lights themselves as he munches on his chestnuts. He was right, of course; Illya looks just as enraptured this time as he had last week. Napoleon tries not to be too smug about it. Eventually he does look up at the tree, catching the tail end of the display.

“So what do you think, Peril? Was it a good surprise?”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Illya nod, his gaze not wavering from the tree, and when he speaks it is practically a whisper. “The best.”

* * *

Napoleon doesn’t know how he feels about _two_ spectators in his kitchen on Christmas day.

Ok, so they’re mostly sticking to the periphery, standing by the kitchen table and chatting with each other as they drink mulled wine. In a way it’s nice, because he doesn’t really need to entertain and cook at once, though by now Gaby is well used to him ignoring her for large chunks of the afternoon. Still, at the moment he’d rather like to banish them to the living room.

The goose is roasting, the sauce is reducing, cabbage is braising and several salads of a distinct Germanic and Slavic flavor are currently residing in the fridge, including the Olivye salad specially requested by Illya. The combination of ingredients had seemed odd to Napoleon’s American palate, but he was never one to knock a dish until he’d tried it. To be honest he never would have expected his Christmas dinner would be this overtaken by that particular region of the world, but his best friend and his roommate both seemed thrilled about it.

“Are you really going to stand over the stove all day, Cowboy?” Illya asks when his and Gaby’s conversation falls into a lull.

It’s true, he has been there for quite a while, but the traditional Thüringer klöße that Gaby demanded were always the most labor-intensive part of his day. He’d never made this particular kind of potato dumpling before he’d met her, and he certainly didn’t have the benefit of growing up watching his mother or grandmother make them.

“Right now I have to babysit these fussy dumplings,” Napoleon tells him, not looking back from where he is bent over the pot of gently simmering water. Several of the said dumplings are currently bobbing in the water, looking deceptively simple. It took him years to perfect the procedure; though composed of little more than potato and bread, making them was a complicated, multi-step process that involved careful tempering of boiling potato into cold, otherwise the dumplings would fall apart later when put in hot water. Napoleon is sure there’s a metaphor—for life, or relationships, or something—in there somewhere.

“They’re not fussy,” Gaby protests. “It’s not my fault that you refuse to use any short cuts.”

Napoleon turns toward her, pointing the slotted spoon for emphasis. “Short cuts are for the weak. And, three years in, I think I’m getting pretty good at them.”  
  
“Yes, darling, they’re quite good,” she allows. She crosses the room toward him and gives his cheek an affectionate pat, grinning at him. “You’ll make a wonderful German grandmother some day.”

He harumphs at her, fighting back his answering smile as he shakes his head. “Go make yourself useful and put on that Nat King Cole album, will you?”

“Whatever you say,” Gaby answers, snagging her wine before she trails out of the kitchen and toward the living room.

“So you’ve been doing Christmas dinners for three years?”

Napoleon glances back to where Illya leans on the kitchen table, mug of mulled wine clutched in one hand. He seems to be just watching Napoleon work, which is fine, he doesn’t really mind an audience, but Illya has never shown that much interest in his cooking before.

“Yup,” he answers, then returns his attention to the dumplings, prodding them occasionally with the spoon.

“Just the two of you?” Illya asks.

Napoleon pauses, staring at the blobs of white dough. It had started on a whim, not long after they became friends, but it had become an important tradition for them. “Yeah. Neither of us has much family left, and they’re all pretty far away.”  
  
“What about your other roommates?”

“Oh, they all always went home for the holidays,” Napoleon says dismissively. “Wouldn’t have wanted some of them around, to be honest with you.”

Illya is silent for a moment, and Napoleon is about to ask what he’s thinking when abruptly he realizes that his roommate is on the move. Coming toward him, of all things. He stops just behind Napoleon’s right shoulder, peering over at the bubbling pots on the stove like he’s inspecting Napoleon’s progress on the dumplings. The proximity sends Napoleon’s heart racing—which is honestly embarrassing, god he hopes Illya can’t somehow tell—and he shifts a bit to the left before he turns slightly toward his roommate.

“Thank you for including me,” Illya says quietly, still staring at the stovetop.

“Of course, Peril. Don’t mention it.”

Illya shakes his head at that, pressing his lips together into a thin line, and a furrow appears between his brows. “I mean it. You didn’t have to. You two are such good friends, and you have this special dinner—”

“You’re our friend, too,” Napoleon breaks in, perhaps a bit more forceful than necessary. The last thing he wants is for Illya to think he’s some kind of pity inclusion, because he had nowhere else to go. “Can’t imagine Christmas dinner without you.”

Oh, fuck. That was a little much, wasn’t it? He definitely overshot. If the admission bothers Illya, though, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he finally looks up at Napoleon, and there’s the same weight in his gaze that had been there at the party. It feels uncomfortably like Illya is searching for something, and Napoleon doesn’t quite understand what but surprisingly, he finds he doesn’t care. Whatever it is, Illya can have it.

“Cowboy,” Illya whispers, nearly a question.

Napoleon has no idea what the answer is supposed to be. At this distance he can smell the mulled wine on Illya’s breath, fruity and sweet and spicy, mixed with that particular scent of his roommate that he has come to know so well. Illya shifts closer, eyes dropping unmistakably to Napoleon’s mouth, and this time, _this time_ , Napoleon thinks he’s just going to fucking do it, damn the consequences—

“Solo, this record is _filthy_. If you want me to put it on you’re going to have to clean—”

Illya leaps backward like he’s been burned, scrambling back across the room, as Gaby walks into the kitchen holding the record in question. She stops dead in the doorway, eyes impossibly wide in a frankly comical expression of surprise before she manages to reign it in.

“I’ll do it,” Illya mumbles immediately, plucking the record from her hands and fleeing the room at great speed.

Napoleon can feel Gaby staring at him, her eyes boring two perfect holes in the side of his head, but he doesn’t look up from the pot in front of him. After a moment she approaches cautiously, like she’s trying not to spook a wild animal, and Napoleon has to bite back a bitter comment about Illya being the one who’s always running away.

“What was _that_?” she asks, even though she clearly already knows the answer.

Napoleon clenches his jaw. “Nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing.”

“Well it _was_ ,” Napoleon snaps, rounding on her.

Gaby, of course, fails to be intimidated, even though he’s got a good seven inches on her. Instead, she looks… disappointed in him. “You’re trying to tell me that if I hadn’t walked in—”

“Just drop it, ok?” he cuts her off sharply. “It doesn’t matter what might of happened. You did, and nothing happened. The end.”

A heavy silence falls over the kitchen, fraught with an unvoiced argument still raging between them, until the soft, crooning voice of Nat King Cole crackles to life over the stereo in the living room. Gaby lets her excoriating glare linger on him for a moment longer before she turns on her heel and leaves him alone with his cooking.

Which, he abruptly realizes, means she’s no doubt going to talk to Illya. The thought sends a wave of panic surging through him. He knows she would never intentionally sell him out, but the possibility of them discussing the situation at all seems like a recipe for disaster. The dumplings currently simmering seem done, so he fishes them out as quickly as he can, leaving the rest for the moment.

The sounds of laughter and conversation filter down the hallway as he hurries toward the living room, trying his best to look nonchalant about this sudden appearance. Gaby sees through him immediately—that much is painfully obvious—pursing her lips just so and giving him a _look_ that says volumes.

“Taking a break?” she asks, idly swirling the wine around in her glass.

“Something like that,” Napoleon answers. He should have grabbed a mug of wine himself, if only so he would have something to do with his hands. “What are you two giggling about out here?”

“I do not giggle,” Illya protests indignantly. Once again, whatever Napoleon thought he had seen in his eyes is gone, and only the expected, comfortable trappings of friendship remain.

At least Napoleon seems to be safe, because there’s no indication that they’ve been discussing what just happened in the kitchen. As if to confirm this, Gaby shrugs, an infuriatingly coy look on her face.

“Oh, just stories from before we moved here. Nothing scandalous,” she adds with a wink. Napoleon just resists scowling at her. “Dinner ready?”

“Ah, no,” Napoleon admits. “Another fifteen minutes. I just, uh, had a moment and thought I’d look through the records.”

Gaby doesn’t call him on this lame excuse, which must be a Christmas miracle. Left with little other choice, he stalks over to the crate of holiday records and flips through them, barely looking at covers of the vinyl.

“So wait, she actually sent him down the runway like that?” Gaby asks Illya from the couch behind him, picking up their interrupted conversation.

Illya chuckles. “Yes. No one could believe it. And then after our instructor praised her daring design.”  
  
“ _No_ ,” she gasps.

“Yes!”

Gaby bursts into a cackling laughter, throwing her head back with abandon as Illya’s own laugh rumbles underneath. Napoleon feels the last thread of his tension unwind and tries to ignore the deep tug of bitter disappointment that takes its place. Back to normal. Again. As usual. He should have expected nothing less. He grabs a Johnny Cash record and leaves it out to put on next, then retreats back to the kitchen to finish up the last of the dinner prep.

Fortunately, the bitterness doesn’t linger long. How could it, with how ridiculously happy his friends are with the food that he’s poured so much time and love into? Illya’s eyes manage to go wide with every new bite, and some of the moans that leave his lips make a frankly inappropriate amount of heat flare low in Napoleon’s gut. He eats the majority of the Olivye salad all on his own, and still manages to put away an obsurd amount of goose and the other sides. Gaby is a bit less effusive—this being her third Solo Christmas dinner and all—but no less appreciative, especially when it comes to her beloved dumplings.

Eventually they all sit back, full and satisfied, and Napoleon privately declares the dinner another triumph. It’s not too long before the record that’s on the player runs out, prompting Gaby to jump to her feet.

“Dancing!” she declares, coming around the table to grab Napoleon’s and Illya’s hands in both of hers.

This is, of course, is another Christmas tradition between them, driven mainly by Gaby. Napoleon lets himself be dragged to standing, smiling indulgently at her, but Illya perhaps unsurprisingly resists. Napoleon’s not sure he should really be dancing anyway, given the volume of food he just consumed.

“You two go,” Illya demurs as he pulls his hand out of Gaby’s grasp. “I’ll clean up.”

“No, Ill _ya_ ,” she pouts, drawing out the second syllable of his name, “don’t be ridiculous. The dishes can wait.”

Illya offers her a gentle smile, shaking his head. “I’m not much for dancing. Go on.”

“C’mon, Gabs, leave the poor man in peace,” Napoleon puts in. He closes his hand around hers and begins pulling her toward the door. “He did just consume half a goose by himself.”

“Very funny, Cowboy,” Illya says dryly, but he looks grateful all the same.

Gaby huffs her disapproval of this but lets herself be pulled out of the room, pausing only to snag the rest of the bottle of wine off the table before they go. She pushes the coffee table to the edge of the living room as Napoleon puts on a new record, and a few minutes later the dulcet tones of Dean Martin fill the apartment. They spin around the room to _Winter Wonderland_ and sway to _White Christmas_ , and Napoleon is just beginning to think that he might need a break and something to drink when he catches sight of Illya leaning in the doorframe, watching them. There is a small, private smile on his face and something in his gaze that makes Napoleon’s chest ache in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. Whatever it is, it’s fleeting, chased away when Gaby peels away from Napoleon and practically throws herself at the Russian.

“Now you _have_ to join us,” she declares, grabbing both of his hands. To Napoleon’s surprise, he lets himself be dragged into their makeshift dance floor, and Napoleon takes this as his chance to escape for more mulled wine.

“Hey!” Illya calls as he disappears back toward the kitchen. “Where are you going?”

“More wine, Peril,” Napoleon answers, grinning as he lifts the pair of empty mugs. “Something tells me you’re gonna need it.”

In the end, Gaby lets Illya escape to the couch for most of the evening, as long as Napoleon is willing to dance with her, but occasionally she insists on pulling him onto the dance floor. His cheeks are flushed pink with wine and exertion—just as Napoleon is sure his own are—and when Gaby snags him he gives Napoleon helpless looks that are so absurdly endearing that they make Napoleon’s heart feel like it’s going to burst.

Occasionally she gathers them all into triangles that only manage to work through the sheer force of her will, and as the night wears on she starts trying to slip away after pushing Napoleon and Illya together. The winks she sends Napoleon when Illya’s back is to her are almost comical, like it’s not obvious to all of them what she’s doing. It never really works for more than a few moments; the unspoken tension between them always bubbles to the surface and they break away, trying to drown their awkward laughter in their wine.

The night ends, as they always do, quite suddenly. Napoleon is in the midst of flipping a record when he turns back to see Gaby all but passed out on the couch, mere seconds after having been still bouncing off the walls. She’s leaning heavily against Illya, who is himself nodding off with his mug still clutched in his hand. Smiling at the pair of them, Napoleon carefully extracts the mug and shakes Illya’s shoulder gently.

Illya’s eyes blink open groggily, and he looks briefly confused to find himself on the couch. “Cowboy? Wha…?”

“You definitely don’t want to sleep here, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs. He gestures back down the hall with a nod of his head. “Go on, I’ll get her set up out here.”

Illya blinks and carefully extracts himself from under Gaby, stumbling off toward his room. To Napoleon’s surprise he reappears a few minutes later holding a spare blanket and a pillow, which Napoleon accepts gratefully, and then he disappears again. When Napoleon returns to the couch he finds Gaby stretched out but awake, looking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. He shakes out the blanket and lays it over her, but she catches one of his wrists and tugs him down to a kneeling position next to the couch.

“You should tell him,” she whispers as she reaches out to push a lock of his hair off his forehead.

“We’ve been over this,” Napoleon huffs quietly. “And I hardly think now is the time to discuss it.”

“It’s Christmas, Napoleon. And at Christmas you tell the truth, or something.”  
  
Napoleon snorts, shaking his head at her. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“There’s something there, between you,” she says insistently, squeezing his hand in hers. “I know you see it.”  
  
“Maybe,” Napoleon allows. “But what if there’s not, really, or if it all falls apart? The idea of losing his friendship is… too much. It’s not worth the risk.”

Gaby stares at him for a moment, her eyes sparkling in the glow of the Christmas lights hung up around the living room. “I disagree,” she murmurs eventually. “Don’t be afraid of letting yourself be happy.”

Napoleon opens his mouth to protest that he certainly is _not_ , but he can’t quite voice the words. Instead he just nods. “Get some sleep,” he tells her, bending down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I’ll make the traditional Boxing Day brunch and we can forget all about this.”

“Napoleon—” she huffs, but he cuts her off with a grin.

“I’ll think about it, ok? Just… not tonight.”

“Ok,” Gaby nods, her eyelids slipping closed. She stretches just a bit, settling into the couch, and then he’s pretty sure she’s completely out.

Napoleon stands, picking up the stray mugs out of habit and a desire to do anything besides think about it, thank you very much. Maybe she’s right, maybe he is afraid of letting himself be happy. Not like it’s worked out all that well for him in the past. Of course, recognizing her point doesn’t mean he’s prepared to actually _do_ anything about it.

He heads to the kitchen and closes the door behind him before he starts pulling out the various ingredients he needs as quietly as he can. There’s too much going on in his head—no way he’s going to get to sleep right now—so he might as well be productive. The dough comes together quickly and he dumps it out onto the counter to start kneading; he can’t use the stand mixer, and this particular dough needs a lot of working to properly develop, but it’s fine. He could use the outlet for the nervous energy that still thrums beneath his skin.

Unbidden, little moments from their evening rise to the forefront of his thoughts. Illya’s moans of delight during the meal. The wash of his wine-tinged breath over Napoleon’s face when they’d stood by the stove. The times as they were dancing when his hands had brushed over Napoleon’s shoulder, or lingered on his waist… But then he also sees the panic in Illya’s eyes when Gaby had interrupted them, and the nervous, uncomfortable laughter whenever they’d get too close.

Napoleon slams the dough into the counter a hair harder than he means to, trying to chase the phantom sensations out of his head. He screws his eyes shut as he leans over the counter, both hands clenched into fists, and curses his inability to just fucking let this go. He doesn’t care what Gaby says, it is _not_ worth the risk.

“Cowboy?”

Napoleon whirls in surprise toward the entrance of the kitchen, where Illya now stands with a supremely confused expression on his face; he hadn’t even noticed the door open. “Peril? Shit, did I wake you up?”

“No,” his roommate answers immediately, shaking his head. “I got up to use the bathroom, and saw the light. What are you doing?”

“Ah,” Napoleon says, looking down at his dough. “Cinnamon buns. For tomorrow morning. It’s really best to let the dough rise overnight, so that the gluten… you don’t care,” he finishes with a huff of laughter.

When he looks back up, Illya’s eyebrows are arcing skyward. “It’s two in the morning. Do you do this every Christmas?”

“No,” Napoleon admits. “I just… had some excess energy to work off tonight. Thought I would put it to good use.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” Illya offers, retreating back toward the door. Napoleon turns his attention to his dough again, so he doesn’t see Illya stop. “Napoleon?”

Napoleon freezes. The sound of his name on Illya’s lips sends a shiver shooting down his spine, which is ridiculous, it’s just his _name_ , even if most people don’t use it all that frequently. In fact, these days he pretty much only ever hears it from Gaby, and it’s somehow more intimate now, in the wee hours of the morning. He can’t quite bring himself to look back at his roommate. “Yeah?” he answers, cursing how tight his voice sounds to his own ears.

“Thank you, again, for tonight,” Illya says, and that is enough make Napoleon turn. Illya looks almost nervous, like he’s admitting more than he is, but also so, so earnest. “I— I had a really good time.”

Napoleon offers him a gentle smile and, just for a moment, lets himself bask in the warmth that fills his chest. “I’m glad to hear that,” he replies. Then he forces himself to be a little honest. For Gaby, or something. “And I’m really happy you were part of it.” He pauses, waiting for some indication that that might have been too much, some signal that he crossed a line.

Instead, a flush rises on Illya’s cheeks and his lips tug into a wide smile as he drops his gaze to the floor. “Merry Christmas, Cowboy,” he murmurs, glancing back up when he’s managed to regain some control of his grin. Then he turns to go, slipping away as Napoleon’s own soft response escapes his lips.

“Merry Christmas, Peril.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to daniel_404 and eavos for providing Russian and German input on what Gaby and Illya might request for Christmas Dinner!


	4. Chapter 4

Napoleon should have known the holiday party wouldn’t be the end of it. No, the universe was definitely always going to take every chance to rub the fake relationship in his face, especially when he least expects it. Like in a random coffee shop in the Village a couple days after Christmas, where they had stopped in to grab coffees and get out of the bitter, blustery weather for a bit. They only happened to be in the area because he was picking up a new commission from a small gallery—a Christmas-time acquisition, the restoration of which they insisted could not wait until after the new year—and Illya had tagged along out of boredom, or something; he’d kind of mumbled some excuse that Napoleon didn’t really understand, but he wasn’t going to begrudge the company.

He’s standing in the middle of the coffee shop, trying to juggle the wrapped painting, which is just too large to be able to carry under one arm easily, when he realizes that someone has stopped in front of them. The voice that comes a moment later makes his hair stand up.

“Look what the cat dragged in from Brooklyn.”

Napoleon’s ex stands directly in their path, looking, of course, entirely put together in his designer coat and Burberry scarf. His dark eyes flash with something like amusement, not that Napoleon can figure out what’s supposed to be funny about this scenerio. It’s been almost two years since they broke up—Napoleon’s last serious relationship—and it’s still too soon to see him.

“Hello Ash,” Napoleon says, his voice as tight as the set of his shoulders. Next to him, he can see Illya tense out of the corner of his eye, no doubt a reaction to the discomfort Napoleon is not bothering to hide. Napoleon reaches out to take his coffee, which Illya had been holding for him, just to have something to do.

“I assume you’re still working for that fussy old restorer, or else you’ve taken up art theft,” Ash notes, his eyes dropping to the painting as his lips twist into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yes, I’m still employed,” Napoleon replies dryly. He would like nothing more than to extract himself from this conversation, but Ash is standing in such a way that it makes it difficult to get by him without the potential for upsetting some of the other patron’s coffees on the nearby tables so for the moment, he is trapped.

“Not making enough to update that coat, though,” his ex sneers, wrinkling his nose. “It’s got to be at least five years out of date at this point.”

“Excuse me?” Illya jumps in before Napoleon can even think of what to say to that. “A classic peacoat never goes out of style.”

Ash turns toward the other man as if noticing him for the first time, quirking an eyebrow curiously. He’s almost of a height with Illya, and he unmistakably takes a moment to look him up and down appraisingly. “And you are…?”

“A designer at Balandin,” Illya answers with more haughtiness than Napoleon has ever heard from him. “You?”

Ash’s eyebrows climb up even higher at this, and to Napoleon’s surprise his entire demeanor changes. His ex actually chuckles, looking impressed. Napoleon doesn’t think he’s ever _seen_ Ash look impressed. “No one that can argue with an expert, clearly,” Ash demurs, glancing at Napoleon. “You never could resist an accent, could you? How long have you been together?”

“Actually, we’re n—”

“Almost two months,” Illya interrupts, then he shifts slightly closer and slides his free arm possessively around Napoleon’s waist. The conflicting impulses to stiffen in surprise or to lean reflexively into Illya’s touch war within him, and he ends up not moving at all, which is probably for the best.

“Congratulations,” Ash replies, sounding genuine, “the flush of new love suits you, Napoleon.” Napoleon wants to say that if he’s flushed it’s only because it’s frigid outside, or because of this goddamn conversation, and certainly _nothing_ to do with new love, but the words get stuck in his throat and he ends up standing there with his mouth open like an idiot. Ash doesn’t seem to notice. “Does this mean you’ll make an appearance at Nick’s New Year’s party this year?”

“Well, I hadn’t—” Napoleon starts.

“Oh dear, you did get an invite, didn’t you?” Ash asks before he can finish.

No, in fact, Napoleon had not gotten an invitation, because Nick—and everyone else likely to be at that party—had always been Ash’s friends, not Napoleon’s. That much had become clear during the breakup. And Ash _knows_ it, so why he’s asking why Napoleon doesn’t show up to a party full of people who mostly despise him is just… baffling.

“We have plans,” Illya steps in before he can say anything to this effect, and Napoleon wonders if he’s ever actually going to be able finish a sentence in this conversation. He also wonders what these mysterious plans are, because Napoleon was certainly unaware that they had any. He must not be hiding his confusion very well, because Illya squeezes his waist slightly (and oh god, what he would not give for that to be a regular thing) and gives him a searching look. “Remember, the party at Rebekah’s? One of the senior designers?”  
  
There’s a flash of uncertainty in Illya’s eyes and Napoleon realizes, oh, this isn’t something Illya just made up for the purpose of sticking it to Napoleon’s ex-boyfriend. This a real party that Illya had not told him about, and Napoleon has no idea what to think of that right now. “Right, of course, how could I forget,” he answers, a little absently.

“Well, it was nice to run into you,” Ash says, even though it was nothing of the sort.

Napoleon manages an insincere smile. “Yeah,” he replies. “Give my regrets to Nick, will you?”

“Of course,” Ash answers in a way that leaves no doubt that he’d been trying to needle Napoleon about the party and was annoyed to have failed.

With that, finally, he turns and heads to the counter to put in his order. Even though he doesn’t turn back to confirm, Napoleon has the distinct impression that Ash is still watching them. Illya’s hand is a steady pressure on his lower back as they leave the shop, which is both comforting and somewhat distressing. More distressing, though, is when he drops it away once they’re outside; a stark chill bites into Napoleon’s back, even though there’s no way that Illya’s hand was providing any meaningful warmth through the wool of his coat. They walk side by side in silence for a couple of blocks until Illya breaks the tension building between them.

“You ok, Cowboy?”

Napoleon glances at him, but has to look away again because the amount of concern writ on Illya’s features is just too much to bear. “Oh, I'm fine. Look, it had to happen at some point. In a city of eight million people, you're bound to run into your ex-boyfriend. So it happened, and I’m fine.” He pauses, trying to decide if he should bring it up, and then his mouth seems to work before he’s even made up his mind. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do… that,” he says abstractly, waving his coffee in the air in front of him.

Illya just shrugs. “It was no trouble,” he says, and oh, Napoleon wishes he hadn’t. No trouble to pretend to be Napoleon’s boyfriend, no trouble to wrap his arm around him and squeeze him close. _If it’s no trouble, maybe he could keep doing it? All the time?_ Napoleon thinks, somewhat hysterically. “He seemed like he needed to be put in his place,” Illya adds, a wry grin twisting his lips.

“You’re not wrong there,” Napoleon huffs out a laugh, his breath sending a large white plume into the air in front of him. “So, uh, this New Year’s party,” he says cautiously, and doesn’t miss the way that Illya flinches. “Were you going to tell me about it, or…?”  
  
“I was,” Illya retorts defensively, his shoulders hunching a bit more. “I just… hadn’t gotten around to it. And anyway, I thought I would just go alone, if you didn’t want to come.”

Napoleon snorts softly at that. “Showing up without your boyfriend to a New Year’s party is even more improbable than a holiday party, you know.”

“I _know_ ,” Illya grits out through clenched jaw. Then he sighs, closing his eyes briefly. “I didn’t want you to feel like you had to go. To pretend.”

If only he knew. Well. If he did know just how much Napoleon did _not_ have to pretend they would have much bigger problems. Napoleon plasters on a cheeky grin he doesn’t feel, and shrugs. “What else am I going to do? Sit on the couch and watch the ball drop on tv in my pajamas?”

“You don’t have plans with Gaby?” Illya asks.

“Nah,” Napoleon says. “The industrial design students always have a party she goes to. Not really my scene.”

“Oh,” Illya responds distantly. Clearly he had not expected this turn of events, and Napoleon wonders if he’s disappointed. But then he glances over at Napoleon, and there’s something unreadable in his expression, but it’s not disappointment. “So… you want to come?”

Napoleon takes a sip of his coffee and tries his best to look nonchalant. “If you want me to.”

“Yes,” Illya answers quietly. “I’d like that.”

* * *

The New Year’s party is a much smaller affair than the holiday party, composed almost exclusively of the designers and their significant others. Sophie and Mara are there stag again, and Napoleon makes a mental note to inquire to Illya about them later. They don’t quite look like a couple, but they also don’t _not_. Still, he knows better than to assume a romantic relationship just because two people are joined at the hip.

The more intimate gathering is both easier and harder to deal with than the big party. On one hand, there are a lot fewer people to have to convince, and given that they all met him a few weeks ago, the conversations are more relaxed with fewer questions about his and Illya’s supposed relationship. But at the same time, it is clear that the designers are a close-knit group, and it feels unmistakably like he’s being adopted into a family that he has decidedly not earned a place in.

It also doesn’t help that he keeps catching Illya smiling at him with a look on his face that he call smitten if he didn’t know that it was all fake. Does he really have to sell it that thoroughly? Of course, his roommate couldn’t know what such looks were doing to Napoleon. For the most part it is a pleasant evening, though, and sometimes Napoleon even forgets that he’s there under false pretenses

“Na _po_ leon,” Sophie drawls as she corners him at one point during the evening, drawing out the second syllable of his name like she seems to enjoy doing.

(Privately, it does funny things to his insides to think about Illya using his first name when talking about him with his colleagues. No doubt it’s just because it’s less awkward than referring to him by his last name—and he certainly can’t call him _Cowboy_ , good lord—when they’re supposed to be dating, but still.)

“Illya said you were an art student but didn’t mention what you did for work. Something on campus?” she asks, then adds, before he can answer, “did Illya tell you I was a Prattie too?”

“He did not,” Napoleon tells her. “When did you graduate?”

She makes a face as she calculates, even though she can’t be more than a year older than Napoleon, if she is at all. “Six years? God. Too long.”

“Not that long,” Napoleon offers. “I work for an art restorer. Cleaning up paintings that have gotten forgotten in someone’s basement, and things like that.”

“Oh wow, that’s so cool! Are you a painter? Illya never mentioned your medium.”

“I don’t bring a lot of my work home from school these days,” he answers, “but yes, I am. Mostly oils, though I’ve spent some time with watercolors too.”

Sophie looks maybe a little too delighted by this new information, and he can easily predict her next questions. “Do you have any photos of your work?” she asks excitedly. “I’d love to see some!”

“Ah, not on me,” Napoleon lies. There are photos of some of his stuff buried in somewhere in his phone, but he’s not about to go digging them out right now. Not to mention that he still manages to feel awkward about sharing his art with people, despite that he has to do it all the time for his coursework. Gaby is the only one who regularly sees his work, and that’s only because she bullies her way into his studio on campus; even Illya has only seen a few of his paintings.

She makes an exaggerated pout of disappointment, but then her expression immediately brightens in a way he’s not sure he likes the look of. “Oh, you should come by the design house some time! It’s silly that Illya hasn’t brought you by yet anyway. And when you come, you can bring some photos!”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he stammers. It doesn’t really matter what he agrees to, honestly, because he’s definitely not going to be visiting Illya’s workplace any time soon. That would imply that they’d be keeping up this charade in the near future at least, and that’s not something he can consider right now.

Thankfully, at that point Illya shows up to rescue him, pulling him away with some excuse that he wanted to show Napoleon something. It’s very nearly midnight now, and they wander through the apartment somewhat aimlessly before they finally end up out on the balcony in the crisp winter air. The streets below them are relatively empty, although for New York that means only a smattering of people stroll along, apparently oblivious to the imminent coming of the new year.

“Any New Year’s resolutions, Peril?” Napoleon asks, just to fill the silence, and the question unexpectedly makes Illya sigh.

“Cowboy, we don’t have to stay.”

“What?” Napoleon says, furrowing his brow. “You want to leave a New Year’s party a few minutes to midnight?”

“It’s just… at midnight, it will be suspicious if we don’t…” Illya trails off, staring down at the street below them, and even in the relatively low light filtering out onto the balcony Napoleon can see the flush blooming across his cheeks.

“If we don’t kiss,” Napoleon finishes, the words cold and hard in his mouth. “Yes, I know, Peril. I assumed we would manage it.”

He knew what the expectation would be when he agreed to go to the party, although until this moment he hadn’t been sure that Illya actually knew about the tradition. Some ridiculous part of him had thought (hoped?) that maybe, with all the near misses they’d had recently, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. But now, with a growing sense of dread, he realizes he was wrong.

“Unless…” Napoleon trails off as his throat tightens. He swallows hard. “Unless it bothers you that much.” He starts turning toward the door leading back inside, because maybe they should leave, even if he distantly registers that the final ten-second countdown to midnight has already begun.

“No!” Illya says sharply, catching his arm before he can turn fully away. Napoleon stops and looks back to see a pained expression on his face. “It doesn’t— it doesn’t bother me. It’s just… you’ve already done so much for me.”

_“—seven, six—”_

The voices of Illya’s colleagues filter through the partly open door, and Napoleon is pretty sure he stopped breathing right around _‘it doesn’t bother me.’_ But somehow, Illya isn’t done.

_“—five, four—”_

“I should have never asked this of you,” he continues. “It was selfish, and I— I don’t want you to have to pretend anymore.” There’s something raw and open in Illya’s gaze, something almost apprehensive, as if he’s expecting Napoleon to be the one who is relieved to be let out of this obligation.

_“—three, two—”_

“Who says I’m pretending?” Napoleon murmurs, and Illya’s eyes go wide.

_“—one! Happy new year!”_

Napoleon’s hand finds Illya’s hip even as his roommate slides a hand behind his neck to drag him forward, pulling him into a crushing kiss. Napoleon wastes no time in sliding his tongue along the seam of Illya’s lips until they part, and Illya fits their mouths perfectly together. He sucks at Napoleon's lower lip, scraping his teeth along its inside and drawing a low moan from Napoleon's throat before pressing forward again to lick enthusiastically past his teeth. In all the times he had fantasized about this moment—and there had been more than a few—Napoleon had never come close to guessing the intensity of it, or how his chest would feel like it’s filled with a searing fire that he never wants to fade.

Illya’s fingers slide up into his hair, cupping the back of his head and tugging him ever closer like all the space between them hadn’t already been obliterated. He doesn’t even let go when they finally part for air, their foreheads and noses still pressed together as they share heavy breaths in the chill night.

“Now _that_ was a New Year’s kiss,” someone says from behind them. Both of their heads snap up—though neither’s grip on each other loosens—to see their host standing in the doorway, grinning broadly at them. “Champagne?” Rebekah offers, holding out two flutes toward them.

Napoleon can’t help it: he huffs out a laugh, wondering how many people witnessed that spectacle through the sliding glass doors. He supposes the jig is up on their fake relationship, to a certain extent, because no one kisses their significant other of two months like _that_ on New Year’s, but then again, does it matter? One of his hands tightens on Illya’s waist as he disentangles the other to reach out and take the proffered champagne.

“Thanks,” he says as Illya accepts the second glass.

“I’ll give you two a moment,” Rebekah smirks before she disappears back inside the apartment.

When Napoleon turns back, the expression on his roommate’s face is almost too much to bear. Illya is looking at him like kissing Napoleon is the best thing that ever happened to him, like he can’t quite believe that this is real, like Napoleon is as dazzling as the light display on the Tree at Rockefeller Center. It makes his breath catch in his throat, and he has to swallow hard to regain the power of speech.

“What should we toast to, Peril?”

Illya purses his lips, looking thoughtful for a moment. “To us,” he suggests, grinning.

Napoleon huffs another chuckle at that, pressing forward to capture Illya’s mouth again in a kiss. It is as slow and tender as their first had been desperate, it takes rather more effort than he’d like to admit to pull back even a millimeter.

“Yeah,” Napoleon agrees, whispering into the quiet space between them. “To us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone so so much for indulging me this AU. I had so much fun with it, and I hope it brought a little holiday cheer to the end of your year. A gentle reminder that comments are love, and I'm dying to hear what you thought of this!
> 
> Happy Holidays!


End file.
